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This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.My friend Nora, me very demurely turned from the camera, and my little sister Michelle all enjoying a good soak in an outdoor bathtub.

I don’t think it’s fair to say we were poor growing up because I’m guessing we weren’t actually poor, we just thought we were because we never had name brand snacks like the other kids at school did. As an adult, I now suspect that it’s more that we had a very frugal mother and an innovative father who would rather make things himself than buy them. Take, for example, this “hot tub” we had in our back yard.

This “hot tub” was essentially a regular bathtub that I’m pretty sure my father kept when they upgraded our bathroom, brought into the backyard, and then built a deck around. Looking back, I can appreciate the genius of the entire thing but at the time I was torn between the embarrassment of having a bathtub masquerading as a jacuzzi in our backyard and the thrill of running back and forth from our pool, which was in a very shady spot and never warm enough to me, to a tub full of hot soapy water. Regardless of my feeling about the whole thing, it was always a hit among the kids at parties. Surprisingly (since many of his parties involved many drunk adults), it wasn’t often utilized by the above-ten crowd.

Now, like most of his other innovations, this wasn’t perfect. This tub was considerably smaller than a real jacuzzi and the only bubbling action you were going to get was if you farted, and it had the tendency to flood, mostly since we kids were left in charge of the faucets and were quite liberal with their application. But it served its purpose and was pretty awesome, if you didn’t count the number of bruises you would acquire every time you fell running up and down the slippery wooden steps to get in and out.

The older I get though, the more fondly I look back at the things my father made, like the miniature balance beam he built for me when I had dreams of being an Olympic gymnast, the honest to goodness dark room he set up in the basement when I started to show interest in photography, and all the times we made salty ice cream in the antique, hand crank ice cream maker he’d found at the dump. These are the things my childhood was made of and as weird as they seemed then, they are the things that, looking back now, I appreciate the most.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

If, one day, fifteen years ago, you were on your way to work and happened to cut through a busy street where drug dealers hung out and where residents were regularly going around getting themselves shot, you might have found yourself wondering what the hell a group of 26 Caucasian kids, dressed entirely in plaid, was doing standing around in a deserted parking lot on the corner of that busy street.

And you might have thought to yourself, “Awww, poor white kids. Maybe I should throw them some bread.”

But if you looked across the street, you’d have seen the Catholic elementary school these kids attended and realized that what you were witnessing was not someone’s cruel idea of Reparations. What you were witnessing was a Catholic school gym class. What you were witnessing was a Catholic school baseball game.

A baseball game with no gloves.

Or bases.

Sometimes there were no bats either, but really, that was rare.

And if you continued to watch the display, you might have noticed one little girl in particular cowering behind a tall athletic looking boy and thought to yourself, “Wow, that poor little white girl must be very scared of baseballs to hide like that.”

But then, on the odd occasion when one of those Catholic school kids actually hit the ball, you’d see that, even though she covered her head with her arms and ran for her life, the ball would still come directly at that little girl every time and manage to hit her, and maybe then you thought, “Wow, that poor little white girl has a good reason for being scared of baseballs. She’s like a freakin’ ball magnet.”

And then you probably drove away and never thought of it again.

Until one day, many years later, when, at your son or grandson’s little league game, you see a woman coaching the other team. And you hear her shout things to her players like “Don’t swing the ball until you get into the batters’ box!” and “Ooops, that was a fumble. Wait are there fumbles in baseball?”, and “Touch home base!” and you’d wonder who the hell elected this woman to coach a sport she obviously knows nothing about.

But it wouldn’t be until you notice her involuntarily ducking every time a ball comes in her general direction that you recognize this coach as the little girl from the school parking lot so many years ago. And you question how that little girl, who hated baseball, who never played on a baseball team outside of gym class in her entire life, who never even watched baseball on T.V. until a year ago, would volunteer to teach a pack of wild baby wolvesteam of rambunctious little boys how to hit and field. And you’d conclude that Catholic school had probably made her a touch crazy.

And if that was what you guessed sir, well then, you would be absolutely correct.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

I’d like to give a big shout out to the Connecticut Judicial System for creating this helpful new tool that tracks criminals just by typing in a bit of personal information. If someone’s committed a crime in the past 10 years, they pop up with a cute little description of their offense and sentence.

Thanks to this ingenious invention, I can now keep up with the lives and times of all my old boyfriends. It’s like Facebook but better.

In the name of full disclosure, I will admit that I’ve found 3 exes so far (and I’ve only just begun!). I’m sure there are a few guys from that hazy period in 1999 that would also be there if I could just remember their names. Or faces. Or anything other than the fact that there was one who had a penis the size and shape of a giant salmon. And finding that out was the end of the relationship because there was NO WAY I was letting something that big getting anywhere near my girl parts. And that, sadly enough, is all I can recall of my entire 16th year.

But now for the inspirational message:

May this story be a lesson to all of the stupid girls everywhere who date a whole bunch of losers in their teen years. Because if you wish hard enough for your prince charming, young lady, if you beg and pray and promise to revoke all your moronic ways, if you can prove to cupid that you’ve changed your mind about ‘saving’ every idiot pothead you meet, well then, YOU TOO can grow up and find the perfect ex-boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend who puts all the rest to shame, the ex-boyfriend you’ll want to spend your whole life being broken up with.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

If there was a job which required sleeping all the time, I’d apply for it. I’d apply for it and I’d get it because I’m the best damn sleeper that I’ve ever met. Even as a little girl I was extremely fond of sleeping. Not too many children ask to take naps but I did.

In fact, I can go to bed at 8:00 pm and not wake up again until 10 or 11 the next morning. And even then, I’m ready to go back to bed at a drop of a dime. A perfect day to me would involve laying in bed, eating, laying in bed some more, cuddling in bed with the kid, reading a book, eating, napping, eating, cuddling, having sex, and finally, going to sleep for the night.

You might call me lazy but I would like to point out that Nostradamus said that the world will be ending in just 3 short years from now and I think that we should all be doing what we enjoy in the meantime. Now to you, granola and a six mile hike may be enjoyable. Or maybe you like to fill your days working hard and accomplishing things. But the thought of all of that just makes me exhausted and cranky.

So, in this time of struggle, when our economy is going to shit and people are getting laid off left and right, I think it’s time to propose a few new career options. Just remember, more jobs would be good for the economy.

1. Mattress Model– Employee will spend days asleep on the beds in our furniture store. Job includes convincing customers how comfortable our mattresses are. Must be able to sleep in busy, noisy environment. Applicant must be an “attractive sleeper”. Snoring, drooling, fidgety sleepers need not apply.

2. Professional Dreamer– Must be able to remember dreams with precise accuracy. Employee will sleep for an average of 7 hours per day and the last hour will involve recording dreams, interpreting their meanings and calling local, state, and federal agencies to share prophecies about current and future events. They find this sort of information invaluable. Some television time on FOX and CNN may be required. Must have strong psychic abilities or a background in sales.

3. Rich Man’s Wife– Sleeping is only part of this job! Other duties include supervising the hired help, complaining and occasionally giving birth.

4. Marijuana Tester– Main duties do not include sleeping but occasionally passing out on the couch is a necessary and expected part of the job.

So there you go, four jobs that call for Professional Sleepers. I’m sure I could think of some more but right now, I’m just too tired and my bed is softly whispering my name- “Eve, Eve, come lay with me,” and I must heed the call.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

From Oprah.com (with notes by me in purple)

Sex expert Tracey Cox, author of Supersex (already ordered it from Amazon. I like to be super at everything I do), challenges the four most popular myths about men and their bodies. Take a guess—are these commonly held beliefs about sex true or false?

Bald men have stronger sex drives.
True. We do know that testosterone is linked with hair loss. And of course testosterone is the chemical responsible for the male sex drive.
So old men have stronger sex drives? Retirement homes here I come!!!!

Having sex negatively affects athletic performance.
False. There is absolutely no evidence to support this one. In fact, it could help because sex can help release those pre-game nerves.
Sex is my only athletic performance.

Big hands, big nose, big feet = big penis.
False. There’s no scientific proof of this whatsoever.
This is very disappointing to me. Whenever I start dating a new guy, whether or not he has a big penis is a bigger concern in my book than whether he:
a) is a good guy
b) has a job
c) lives with his mother or
d) has 16 different babies mamas.
Now that my foolproof method has been proven false I will have to take the ol’ “grab and feel” approach.

African-American men have the biggest penises.
True. Research confirms that Asian men are the smallest, followed by Caucasians, with African-American men being the largest.
I REALLY wish I could have taken part in that study.

Even More Sex Trivia…

The average man can keep an erection for around 40 minutes, even though he might not last that long. The average woman takes about 20 minutes to climax from oral sex.
40 minutes is 38 minutes and 26 seconds too long for me. I’m like a teenage boy. A minute and a half and I’m done. Then I just want to roll over and go to sleep.

The average man gets around seven erections a day. Sadly, five of those are in his sleep.
Haha that explains it.

The average speed of ejaculation is 28 mph.
Whatever, it’s just a sprint. Anyone can move at speeds of 28mph for 2 inches.

Sex is healthy. There’s more protein in the average ejaculation than there is in a medium-sized pork chop.Actually I’m just fine with my protein deficient diet thank you.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.

I don’t claim to know a lot about many things. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how to fly an airplane or rebuild a car engine. But I do know a little bit about being a parent, seeing as how I’ve been one for a while now. And for that reason, I feel qualified enough to give at least one piece of advice to those women out there contemplating becoming mothers themselves.So, what is my advice to those of you who feel your lives won’t be complete without a little bundle of joy to call your own, to those who long to hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet? What is my advice to you, my friend? Well, it’s really very simple.Don’t do it.Resist that biological clock you hear ticking. For heaven’s sake, take a sledgehammer to it if you have to! But no matter what you do, no matter what your instincts (and mother-in-law) are telling you, DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN!See, there are things they don’t tell you in parenting books. Things like how there’s a good chance you’ll poop on the delivery table during labor, how your boobs will probably not only sag but also get smaller after breastfeeding, and how you will feel the unyielding urge to maim that three-year old in the park because he threw sand in your baby’s face.

But the most important thing that they don’t tell you, the thing you really should know before you get into the whole “mom” thing, is that the moment that baby pops out, your heart will go with it.

Your HEART!

Am I making myself clear enough? You know, that beating, pumping thing you couldn’t possibly survive without? Yes, well now that heart will be in the care of an infant and you will never get it back again. That wee baby, who you wouldn’t even leave in charge of feeding itself, will now and forever be in charge of taking care of your vital organs.

Now as anyone who’s ever met a toddler knows, their grubby little hands are not the safest place for a heart to be. I mean really, they haven’t even mastered their gross motor skills yet, let alone realized the propensity of being in charge of a human heart. Plus, they pick their noses and eat it. For fun! Not really the type of person I would have chosen to protect my most vital organ had I known better.

But apparently there’s some sort of conspiracy among babies to steal their mothers’ hearts, one that has been going on since the beginning of time and one that I suspect you and I may even have been a part of. I can only assume that it’s during that final push of labor, right before her first breath, that your baby will, in one last attempt to remain inside the warmth of your body, reach up, grab a chunk of your heart, and pull it out without you even knowing. That or they slowly absorb it into their growing bodies during the nine months of pregnancy. You can’t really blame them though, since there’s nothing else to do that whole time, other than trying to get their feet stuck in your ribcage.

Anyways, the when’s and whys really aren’t important. What’s important is that if you have a child you should be prepared to give up your heart. You probably won’t even notice right away that it’s missing. After all, at first you’re all caught up in the peach fuzz and tiny socks. And since you have to hold a newborn almost constantly anyways, your heart hasn’t really gone too far yet. But just you wait until you have to drop that baby off at daycare for the first time or send him away for his first sleepover. Then you’ll notice, and only then will you realize the cruelty of it all. The place where your heart used to be, the place you thought became fuller upon having a child, well, that place is now vacant and that little bugger is the one who took it.

So here’s a fair warning. The pain that you’ll feel due to being separated from your heart is so great that it’s almost unbearable. It’s far worse than anything any stupid boyfriend’s ever done. And all of a sudden you’ll realize that the reason you’ve devoted every last bit of energy to caring for this child is not because you have given birth to God’s gift to the world. No, it’s the fact that if something happens to the kid, something will happen to your heart, and if something happens to your heart, YOU WILL DIE.

And nobody wants that.

So before you take that plunge into motherhood, consider that you will have to make it your life’s mission to protect that child of yours because, as you may already know, there is no way to get a heart back from a toddler. They are very bad at sharing. You’ll obsess over it when she tells you she can swim in the deep end by herself. You’ll hyperventilate about it when she goes for her driver’s license. You’ll spend months grasping for it when she leaves for college. But no matter what you do, that kid will never understand the responsibility she’s been given- the responsibility of caring for her mother’s heart.

Not until she has her own child at least…

This article was originally posted on my site thatsmyapple.com. Visit there for more pieces from Eve (IAteYourDamn) Apple.